


just be a classy guy

by lattely (orphan_account)



Series: snippets from a lover's calendar [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Meet the Family, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, Shrunkyclunks, i might even say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-27 03:08:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21385063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/lattely
Summary: Thing is, they’ve talked about Steve meeting Bucky’s loved ones, but never regarded the possibility as a thing to deal with soon.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: snippets from a lover's calendar [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1323428
Comments: 12
Kudos: 242





	just be a classy guy

**Author's Note:**

> Well, folks. This one has been a long time coming.
> 
> [This](http://photos.linkurealty.com/listing_pictures/4188/1654%20glenwood%20selects%20-%2001.jpg) is what I imagine the Barnes family house to look like. It actually is located in the neighborhood I mention in the fic, because I don't fuck around.
> 
> Title is from Meghan Trainor's _Dear Future Husband_. This isn't betaed; any mistakes are my own.

Steve is pulled from the toasty hold of sleep by the opening bars of _ Oops! I Did It Again _ blasting on full volume somewhere to his right.

Next to him, Bucky stirs and lets out a pained, sleepy groan, not dislodging Steve’s embrace around his waist as he stretches out an arm to blindly grope around the nightstand. He sends a blister pack of his emergency Ibuprofen pills skittering to the floor in the process, and Steve winces from the noise, letting out a displeased whine into the back of Bucky’s head.

The reason of the disturbance must be an incoming call, because Bucky’s morning alarm is the default iPhone Radar, not Britney Spears’ early discography. It beats Steve by a mile, though, as to who might be calling Bucky at what he assumes is before eight in the morning. If it’s one of those nagging canvassers who pick a number to dial by throwing dice, Steve would be highly tempted to buy one of the pans or whatever it is that they’re advertising, and pound them over the head with it.

“‘Lo?” Bucky slurs into the speaker once he manages to snag the phone and swipe at the screen to take the call. Steve groggily tightens his hold around Bucky’s naked middle, craning his head to press his lips against the top notch of Bucky’s spine. His skin is warm with sleep, smelling of fresh linens and the faint remnants of his citrus-and-lavender cologne from the day before.

Their relationship is coming up on nine months, and they wake up wrapped around each other most mornings that they both spend in New York. Steve hopes it never ends.

The Avengers took to Bucky like a cat to an open laptop’s keyboard. He and Sam have some sort of an antagonistic relationship where they glower at each other from across the room and steal the other’s pizza, but are brought together by merciless Steve-ribbing. Clint abandons his Nintendo Switch without hesitation to say hi when only Bucky drops by, which is saying wonders - he wouldn’t cast _ The Legend of Zelda _ aside in the face of an earthquake. Even Natasha has warmed up to Bucky in her own peculiar way; her eyes don’t trail calculatingly after him every time he’s in the same room anymore, and she’s neglected keeping her minimum of ten feet’s distance. She doesn’t exactly engage in gossip with Bucky, but she honors him with a greeting nod when they meet. It gives Steve the tingles, because Natasha’s trust software is a Gordian knot to hack, and Bucky seems to be on the way to cracking the first codes.

“Good morning, bear!” says a woman’s voice, quiet through the phone’s speakers but still audible. From the pet name, Steve gathers it must be Bucky’s mom; he’s heard her refer to Bucky like that the first time she called her son in Steve’s presence, and he cooed the term of endearment at Bucky until he threatened Steve with a breakup.

“Hi, ma,” Bucky responds in compliance with Steve’s assumptions. His voice is deep and croaky, thick with drowsiness.

There’s a small pause before Mrs Barnes replies, sounding mortified, “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

Bucky rubs his eye with his free hand, adjusting the phone to sit more comfortably at his ear with the other. “You did. It’s fine, though.” He says it like he means it, even though he probably wants nothing more than to roll over and pull the comforter over his head.

“Oh, Bucky, I’m so sorry!” comes from the other end of the line. “You’re usually awake on Fridays by now, and I thought- I’m really sorry, I’ll just let you sleep.”

It’s true, Bucky _ is _ usually awake on Fridays by now, but his morning lab got called off due to a power outage, and he doesn’t need to be coming in until a lecture three hours later. He and Steve were planning to spend a lazy morning in, but well. So much for sleeping late.

“No, ma, wait, it’s no problem,” Bucky says, moving to prop himself up on his elbow and half-sitting against the headboard. By extension, Steve rises, too, despite Bucky apologetically motioning for him not to bother. “You’ve already got me awake, it’s fine.”

“Oh. Well. If you say so,” comes from the speaker. Mrs Barnes sounds skeptical, but she doesn’t hang up.

Cradling the phone at his ear, Bucky wiggles up against Steve, snaking his arm around Steve’s waist with an adorable little grunt, and pillows his head on Steve’s shoulder. He closes his eyes, only to force them to flutter open after not even the full span of a second. Endeared, Steve kisses his hair; Bucky must still be awfully lethargic.

Through the phone, the unsure clearing of Mrs Barnes’ throat reaches them. “Anyway, your dad and I- we were talking, and we would love to have you and Steve over for dinner tomorrow. If you’re up for it, that is,” she says, all seemingly in one big rush of air, and Steve’s heart constricts at her words. He’s not even trying to deny that he’s listening in on the conversation by now. “It’s just, you’ve been seeing each other for quite some time, and we really want to meet him. From what you tell us when you come visit, bear, he’s making you very happy.”

Steve’s heart jumps again, exhilarated; it’s one thing to put a smile on a loved one’s face, but another to hear that it’s noticeable to others.

“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly into the speaker. “Yeah, he is,” he repeats, louder this time, and when he looks up at Steve, there’s a shy smile playing at his lips. Steve can’t help but brush a kiss against the corner of his mouth, and then another smack-dab in the center, making Bucky smile broader, a beautiful pink spilling over the bridge of his nose as he ducks his head, coy. Steve adores that rosy flush - it appears on Bucky’s face when he’s flustered, or when he’s had a little too much Merlot; it accompanies when his eyes are dark and shining from Steve’s kisses.

Bucky presses his lips to the underside of Steve’s jaw, a tiny thing that’s more of a featherlight tickle than a kiss. “You up for it?” he says softly, tipping his head back to look Steve in the eye, and Steve cups his face in his hand, sweeping a thumb under Bucky’s eye and over his cheekbone.

Thing is, they’ve talked about Steve meeting Bucky’s loved ones, but never regarded the possibility as a thing to deal with soon. The plans never did end up coming to fruition, not because Bucky was worried his family would give them the stink-eye - on the contrary, he’s adamant they’ll absolutely adore Steve - but because the two of them always got caught up in something else than dinner arrangements: Steve’s mission, Bucky’s examination period, or plainly each other.

Now, Steve sees it as the next step in their relationship, a telltale sign that the one drawer in Bucky’s wardrobe is there to stay full of Steve’s assorted clothing Bucky doesn’t obstinate from occasionally stealing.

He kisses the shallow dip in the bone above Bucky’s eyebrow that always deepens when he’s frowning. “I’m free tomorrow,” Steve near-whispers; Bucky smiles, bright and broad, a supernova, a spatter of sunlight, and reaches to cradle Steve’s free hand against the paisley-patterned Ikea duvet.

Into the phone, he says, “What time do you want us to be there?”

* * *

“I’m freaking out,” Steve says, relentlessly drumming his middle finger on the mug of his nearly untouched Americano (with a splash of milk, because Bucky is evil and his coffee-making habits are contagious). Across the tiny table, Sam takes a loud slurp out of his iced vanilla latte.

“Why?” he says simply after he swallows the mouthful of sugar. He’s shifted into his counsellor mode, Steve sees it, but he doesn’t mind as much as he would’ve in another situation, because he could really use some professional advice right now.

“It’s his _ parents_, Sam. And his sisters!” Steve says. “What if they hate me?”

Sam raises his coffee to his mouth again and takes another sip through the green straw. For some reason, he ordered his drink in a take-out cup even though he already knew they would be sitting down when they entered the shop. “Would you care if they hated you?” he says, and Steve’s eyebrows soar so far up they might’ve nudged his hairline back.

“Of course I would! What kind of question is that?” he exclaims without actually raising his voice - they’re out in public, after all - but in a tone that implies that if he could, he would.

He’s been losing his mind over the family dinner ever since he walked Bucky to his class following a morning well spent (after Bucky put down the phone, they devoted the time previously intended for extra sleep to cuddling in bed with breakfast and season three of _ Lucifer_. Steve can’t help but root for the protagonist to finally be happy). But when only Bucky disappeared into the lecture hall, Steve came crashing down from the sappiness-induced high, his mind jumping into the bottomless pool of doubt. Thank God Sam agreed to meet him in a nearby Starbucks, else no one knows what he’d be up to right now. Probably stress-sprinting on one of Tony’s treadmills.

“Okay, let’s try that again,” Sam says. “Would you care enough for it to stop you from being with Bucky?”

Steve actually halts to think that over. Bucky’s the love of his life, he knows that with a fierce certainty; would his relatives’ negative opinion drive Steve away? “Well, no,” he admits. “But what if it makes him leave me?” he adds, insecurity coiling low in his throat. “He probably wants someone his family likes. What if he decides I’m not worth the hassle?”

If Sam notices the change of pitch in Steve’s voice, he doesn’t speak a word about it. “Listen. You’ve been together for what, nine months? That’s quite some time for a relationship, man. And you said that his mom noticed how much happier he is when you weren’t even there. That has got to amount for something. Every good parent will appreciate someone who makes their kid smile.” Sam draws another long sip and wipes the condensation left on his palm from holding the cold cup on his jeans. “Also, I know him. He’s one feisty dude, and I’m sure he wouldn’t hesitate to tell his folks off. And, in case you haven’t noticed, he really fucking loves you. So.” He shrugs one shoulder. “You don’t got nothin’ to worry about, Rogers, just take my word for it.”

In moments like these, Steve is struck by how damn precious Sam is to him.

“Yeah,” he says, awed. “Yeah,” he repeats, with more conviction this time. “Thanks, Sam.”

“No problem, man,” Sam says. When a gap-toothed grin slowly blooms on his lips, Steve braces himself for the worst. “Besides, I’m pretty sure it’s illegal not to like Captain America.”

Steve throws a napkin at him.

* * *

“How do I look?” Steve asks for what is probably the third time as they approach the front porch of a surprisingly blue-grey detached house in Fiske Terrace.

He’s wearing dark wash jeans and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, an outfit proposed to him by Google (he had to regretfully alter the pronoun in his search when the results of ‘what to wear to meet his parents’ all suggested he wear an above-the-knee dress).

Bucky’s hand is resting in the crook of his elbow as they walk down the short pathway cutting through a lovingly manicured lawn; they would hold hands if both of Steve’s weren’t occupied with cabernet sauvignon for Bucky’s father and a bouquet of peonies for his mother. Steve can still remember Natasha circling the flowers like a curious kitten in his living room as he changed from shirt to shirt in a panic.

Bucky chuckles. “Sweetheart, for the third time, you look amazing.” He squeezes Steve’s bicep where his fingers are loosely wrapped around it. “It’s gonna go fine,” he adds softly, sensing Steve’s nerves. To distract himself, Steve focuses on how great Bucky looks, himself - in his black skinny jeans and a grey v-neck that exposes a tantalising glimpse of his sharp collarbones, he really is impossible to resist.

The thirteen or so feet of path leading to the porch steps run out within seconds, and suddenly Bucky is ringing the doorbell, telling Steve how weird it is to wait for someone to let him into the house he grew up in.

Steve’s enhanced hearing picks up hurrying footsteps on the other side of the dark wood door which is momentarily thrown open to reveal a smiling woman who must be Bucky’s mother - long dark hair laced with single threads of silver a stark contrast against the pale mauve of her sweater, blue eyes nearly identical to the shade of Bucky’s. She’s flanked by a tall, grey-haired man whose nose and chin dimple are the exact replicas of his son’s features, his deep brown eyes shining with welcoming warmth. Something about the both of them puts Steve at ease.

“Oh, bear, it’s so good to see you!” the woman grins, throwing her arms around Bucky and kissing his cheek noisily. Laughing, Bucky hugs her back with his free arm. “And you must be Steve!” she disentangles herself from her son and turns to Steve, changing fronts like a bumblebee in a botanical garden in full bloom. Before he can get a word in, she pulls him into a similarly vigorous embrace; stunned, he doesn’t have time to react until she’s already retreating, her rose perfume wafting after her.

“It’s great to finally meet you, Mrs Barnes,” Steve says faintly, offering out the flowers. She takes them with a delicate care and a quiet gasp of pleased surprise, holding them up to her nose to take a deep sniff of their sweet scent.

“Oh, darling, peonies, you didn’t have to!” she says, delighted. “And please, to you it’s Winnie. Let me put these in a vase,” she adds and rushes away into the depths of the house.

Bucky’s father, luckily, is satisfied by a simple shaking of hands.

“We’ve heard a lot about you, Steve,” he says with a smile. Steve huffs out a laugh. Where his wife is a whirlwind of energy, Mr Barnes appears to be a benign man of a stoic nature; perhaps that’s why they make a good pair. Married for almost thirty years, Bucky has mentioned once.

“Only the good stuff, I hope,” Steve replies as he hands off the wine.

Mr Barnes inspects the label, releasing an approving - Steve hopes - hum. “The best,” he grins when he’s done reading. He steps aside, motions to the doorway. “Come on in, let me close the door after you two.”

The hall, Steve discovers when they step over the threshold, is done up in warm browns and beiges, with walnut floors to offset the pure white of the walls. Natural light is flooding in through the partially glass-panelled front door, bathing the tastefully rustic entryway furniture in the subdued golds of late September. A bright red trench coat is hanging on the peg rack, and the shoe drawer is cracked open just enough to reveal a sliver of the mess of sneakers and boots tossed inside.

“That’s a beautiful house you’ve got there,” Steve says as Mr Barnes leads them to sit in the living room, his admiration letting itself be known, if Bucky’s quiet laughter is to be believed.

The space is styled to match the hallway - muted colors, white couch cushions, and an added splash of green in the form of visibly cared-for plants. Here, too, the light comes pouring in through the big windows, glinting off the many picture frames hung up on the walls - a man kissing the swell of a woman’s pregnant belly; a small boy splashing in the sea; three girls of varying heights running through a snowy backyard. A thick crochet blanket lies rumpled halfway off the couch, a magazine open on an interview with an actress Steve vaguely recognizes resting on top of the baby blue wool.

“We renovated it ourselves, from head to toe,” Winnie says with no small amount of cheerful pride, coming in from the kitchen with the peonies nestled in a blue glass vase she arranges on the coffee table. “It was sad to look at when we first bought it, you know,” she continues, settling beside her husband on one of the two sofas, “but it was big, and we always wanted enough room for a family.” She and Mr Barnes share a meaningful look, George cupping her hand where it lies on the couch between the two of them. It’s plain to see they’re in-sync, that they understand each other as if they were one person, and Steve looks away, pulling his arm tighter around Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky reaches across his torso to lace their fingers together.

“Speaking of family,” Winnie perks up, twisting towards the staircase around the corner. “Girls!” she shouts with a decibel level only a mother can execute. “Come down, the boys are here!”

Soon, there’s the sound of footsteps thumping down the stairs, and three young women emerge from around the bend of the wall. Steve’s eyes immediately catch on the girl in the middle, if only because she’s the shortest of the three, her two sisters growing taller than her by nearly a head. She must be Rebecca; Bucky has mentioned her height in his stories.

Getting up from his perch along with everyone else previously sat, Bucky wraps the woman in a tight embrace. The top of her head barely reaches his chin, and he makes use of the opportunity to smash her nose into his chest. “Good to see you, Farquaad!” he exclaims as he ruffles her dark hair that falls in a straight curtain over her shoulder blades. The nickname confirms Steve’s suspicions - Bucky often refers to the eldest of his younger sisters by the unfortunate endearment.

“We had lunch last week, let go of me!” Rebecca’s complaints come out muffled by Bucky’s sternum. A shit-eating grin decorating his face, Bucky complies, releasing his almost-chokehold on her, and goes to launch himself into a rapid-fire series of claps and fist bumps with the girl to Rebecca’s right. Her highlighted hair is gathered into a messy ponytail, left ear embellished by a set of piercings, and Steve recognizes her as Laura from the ugly selfies she and Bucky send back and forth on Messenger. Of all his sisters, Bucky is the closest with her, a kinship cemented by non-straight sexualities and the love of absurd memes.

At last, Bucky steps in to hug the girl with a mane of wild curls cascading down her shoulders, who would undoubtedly make Steve do a double-take on the street with how much she resembles her brother, the only exception being her dark, almost black eyes. By process of elimination, Steve guesses she’s Grace - the youngest of all Barnes children, top of her senior class and the captain of the high school volleyball team whose games Bucky attends with the mania of a psychofan.

Steve is midway through shaking the girls’ hands when a rhythmical clicking comes from the direction of the staircase, and before he can ask whether someone left a gas stove on, a chocolate labrador bounds into the room, to Bucky’s instant delight. As soon as the dog notices him, its tail goes insane, spinning like the blades of a helicopter in flight as the animal breaks into a wild sprint.

“Hi, Artemis! Hey, gorgeous girl!” Bucky coos, exultant, vigorously scratching the dog’s brown coat while she weaves between his legs with ecstatic whimpers. “Hi! I missed you!”

Artemis’ attention quickly shifts, the lab apparently happy with the warm welcome she received, and she extricates herself from Bucky’s petting hands to evaluate the room. Upon spotting Steve, her floppy triangular ears perk up in curiosity; she trots up to him eagerly, and he lowers himself to one knee, careful not to spook her away.

He’s always loved dogs, has always wanted one, but between the Depression’s penury and the peril of being an Avenger, he never managed to fulfill that dream.

“Hello, milady,” he says, extending his hand for Artemis to sniff. Intrigued, she does so, her wet nose tickling Steve’s palm, and then, to his surprise, she licks the pads of his fingers, her tongue softer than he ever anticipated a dog’s to be. Scenting her way up his arm, Artemis pushes into his space and tucks her snout under his armpit, only satisfied when he, laughing, scritches behind her ear.

“Oh my God,” Grace says, and when Steve turns his head in her direction, surprised, all the Barneses are sporting matching grins. Straightening up from his crouch, he gives Bucky a questioning look. Artemis whines in disappointment; apologetically, Steve strokes the top of her head.

“She’s the lead judge of character here,” Laura explains. When she’s smiling, shallow dimples show up in both of her cheeks. “We’ve had her for, like, eight years, and she always checks out everyone we bring home. If she sniffs you and then doesn’t want any pets from you, it means you secretly suck. And she’s always right. In junior year, she completely blew off my boyfriend, and he ended up cheating on me at a party and breaking up with me during text when I found out.” Steve frowns at that, but Laura doesn’t appear bothered in the slightest, her dimples still out and about. “I don’t think she’s ever licked a stranger’s hand before. Which, you know. You’re verified and approved now.”

That fills Steve with an odd sense of pride.

“I don’t think you needed ‘Temis to tell you that,” Bucky says, moving to take Steve’s hand. “I’m glad she did, though,” he adds, a tone quieter; when Steve looks at him, Bucky’s eyes are tender, warm, and Steve bows his head to kiss his cheek. Right away, both Rebecca and Laura pretend to be choking, prompting Bucky to kick his leg out, catching Becca’s shin.

“Mom, put him in time-out!” she says with a stone-cold glare at her brother.

Fondly, Winnie only laughs. “All of you, go sit down at the table. The casserole must be almost ready.”

Over the next three hours, they all eat, talk, laugh, and eat even more. Steve finds out about Becca’s three roommates and the struggles of her internal medicine residency program. Laura gushes about the third and final year of her Costume Design course, and tells Steve all about her Irish girlfriend of four years, Taegan, who lives in London and is reportedly ‘the most gorgeous person alive’. Grace, tranquil and sweet-tempered, keeps quiet until George brings up the subject of the upcoming match against her rival high school. She comes alive, explaining at length the tactics she plans on her team to practice during their next training session, and gasps when Steve confesses he’s never seen a volleyball game. Under the table, Steve sneaks Artemis scraps from his plate, falling easy prey to her puppy eyes when she lays her head on his thigh.

Before he knows it, it’s time to leave - dusk is painting the sky in diffused pinks and lavenders, and the evening air is cool, smelling sweetly of the earth, as they say their goodbyes on the porch.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Bucky says, low, after Winnie has closed the door after them and they’re strolling down the stone pathway, hands interlocked. A nearby street lamp is bathing him in orange light, making gold reflect in his dark hair, and Steve can’t help but stop to pull Bucky close, enchanted, to stroke his cheek with a thumb and admire the yellow twinkles in his eyes.

It’s moments like these when he feels the most human: when Bucky wraps his hand around Steve’s wrist where it’s cupping Bucky’s face, and caresses Steve’s pulse point, slow and gentle. Moments like these, when Steve knows there’s someone to handle his heart, to pamper it like it’s deserving.

“It was perfect,” he replies quietly, and leans in for a kiss.

Bucky tastes of the peach meringue pie they ate for dessert and the Earl Grey that accompanied.

“Steve and Bucky, sitting in a tree!” a voice full of mirth unexpectedly calls out from above, startling Steve into breaking away from Bucky and looking up. Laura is leaning out of a second-storey window, her silhouette backlit by the bright yellow glow of the room she’s in with both of her sisters, whose figures bracket hers as the three erupt into peals of laughter.

Stepping away, Bucky releases an amused giggle. “Goodnight, Loo!” he calls, and tugs Steve towards the sidewalk.


End file.
